Musician of People
by Herr Fritz
Summary: Mycroft had always prided himself on his ability to make music, but not with instruments...  Very minor, unintentional hints of Mycroft/Lestrade  which constitute the Romance genre, for all you Mystrade fans .


Mycroft had always prided himself on his musical talents.

Not that he regularly exercised his abilities in melody; it had been years since he had touched an instrument. No, Mycroft didn't squander his musical talents on _things_; his skills had a much more important role in life. His skills were that of Debussy and Beethoven, Verdi and Wagner, but so much more viable.

Mycroft was a musician of _people_.

He could identify his methods of manipulation to playing a concerto; because, Mycroft had rationed when he was young, people were exactly like instruments. They could be tuned and played, and if you knew the instrument and found the right notes, you could 'strike a chord' and produce a glorious melody. When you discovered how to play one person, to appeal to their manner of persuasion, it was as beautiful as a harmonizing symphony. And just like a symphony, like an orchestra of brass, strings, and winds, there was always one man standing before them all, conducting their actions and words.

People always resembled different instruments, and just like real devices, they came with their own characteristics and methods of chorus. To Mycroft, each instrument came with its own technique; its own difficulties and triumph when it had finally been mastered. Some instruments were more easily learned than others, while some took daily practice to hone his skills and keep his persuasion sharp.

The everyday person was a piano; the first musical instrument Mycroft had learned how to play. It was one of the more basic instruments, so it was no surprise for Mycroft to discover that he was not the only one who could coax harmony out of the pianos he met on a day-to-day basis. What differentiated Mycroft from the other players was that they were mere dilettantes; they couldn't hit the chords with the same accuracy as him, they couldn't respond to sudden changes in the pitch or adjust to the resonations of shifting logic.

Anthea was a flute to him. She was a delicate thing, just like the high notes her likeness produced. And just as it was near-guaranteed that every orchestra had a flute, it could be guaranteed that Anthea could be found alongside Mycroft; never dictating the opus, but playing along, providing an accompanying tune. She was a reliable rhythm, but could be sparked into bursts of creative soloism, being Anthea one day, Siri the next, finishing the week by playacting Madeline. Mycroft knew he could direct her if he wanted to, but he had never quite favored playing the flute, just as he had never found the desire to manipulate Anthea. She was a companion melody, her assistance a song he would never tire of.

Being Mycroft's brother had not saved Sherlock from classification into an instrument. If anything, seeing his younger brother grow and mature had given Mycroft an even better idea of what he was. In both elegant appearance and cold mannerisms there was no doubt he was to be paired with the harp.

It was a pity that Mycroft had never been able to play the harp. It, like Sherlock, was a beautiful thing, capable of making great music when the strings were resonated. Part of the wonder of both the beautiful instruments was that few people knew how to play the harp, just as few people knew how to play Sherlock. He was the most stubborn kind of instrument, the kind that only two people in the world knew how to coax music out of.

But out of those two people who knew the correct technique to play him, there was only one Sherlock would allow to make music, and Mycroft well knew it wasn't him.

John was the drum in Mycroft's eye, always playing along to Sherlock's beat. Though a very typical instrument in the world of acoustic art, Mycroft had discovered that the percussion's likeness was surprisingly rare to find in a person. When the similarity _did_appear though, one could expect great things to happen around them. Anthea had scoffed when Mycroft drew this comparison to John, and while it _was_ true that not much could be done by a drum itself, Mycroft had explained, once it was placed in a band, it had the power to change everyone else's beat.

Even the stubborn, contrasting rhythm of the harp.

For all Mycroft knew of his brother's _actual_ nemesis, he would say that Moriarty was an obnoxious, blaring trombone. There was something about trombones that compelled them to try and play over the rest of the orchestra, always to disastrous results. Yes, the loathsome, intolerable, painful to hear discord of Moriarty was the bane on Mycroft's musical career. It was all he could to do ensure that the rest of his ensemble would play over the illicit's racket.

Lestrade was a guitar, Mycroft's instrument of choice. It would always be a secret to the world, but the guitar was the favorite instrument that he had learned to play; more relaxed than the violin lessons, more flexible in style than the trumpet. It wasn't just Lestrade's age that conjured the 'old school' image for Mycroft; it was the man's whole demeanor that illustrated his old-time values. He was hardly smooth or refined (though, Mycroft would guiltily admit under scrutiny, he _did _clean up extremely well for state events), but he had his own level of class.

As the guitar could easily adapt to new genres of music, Lestrade could also adjust to the unpredictability of his work-filled life. Always, though, he would end up returning to his simple strumming tune: his down-to-earth values of a job completed, a problem resolved, and those he loved close to him.

It was that closeness that made Mycroft glad Lestrade wasn't a member of a symphony, where they'd be separated by rows of meaningless noise. No, the guitar was an instrument of proximity, for serenading, and an accompaniment to meaningful lyrics.

With all the instruments in his life, Mycroft knew that it would never be silent. Always he would have tuning, thrumming, resonating, whistling, blaring harmonies surrounding him as he went. Even in the stillness of his solitude he would always be standing before his orchestra, tapping his umbrella to begin the concerto of his next manipulation.

Because what good was a musician without his willing instruments waiting to be played?

**/-/**

**Thanks to patster223 for helping to get me out of the 'which instrument is Lestrade?' rut. Now if I could only get out of the 'Lestrade and Mycroft election story rut' that I've been caught in for the past three months…**

**As clarification, Lestrade is an old-school guitar. Like the ones American country singers use. Definitely **_**not**_** an electric guitar. That's a young man's toy, and let's face it: Lestrade's no spring chicken.**

**And I have nothing against trombone players. I used to play trombone…until an ungodly incident happened involving an uncased trombone, a spiral slide, a skateboard, and several large rocks.**


End file.
